Rhiannon’s home is painted blue on the outside with a well-maintained lawn, a white picket fence and a wraparound porch.It looks like something straight out of a ninety’s romance movie and nothing like where I thought she’d be living.
I’m guessing she has roommates, or maybe she’s just renting a room here. It’s hard to believe, considering how many jobs she juggles, that she’d want to live this far away from where she works. But now, I can’t help kicking myself for not thinking this through better or at least giving her a heads-up that I’d be showing up.
Oh, right—I couldn’t call or text her to let her know since she still hasn’t given me her phone number.
Ah, fuck.What if she lives here with her parents?
The thought sends a ripple of unease through me. I don’t do great with the whole meet the parents’ thing. I’ve hardly spent time with my own. My mom ditched me and my sister when we were young, remarried and moved to Europe with her new husband, and my dad married his career.
Most days, I don’t consider them the people who raised me. I was raised by a nanny and my own determination to not turn out like them. That second part isn’t working out for me.
I look down at the passenger seat where her wallet is and open it. Checking the address again and confirming that I’m at the right place I look back up at the blue trim and dark sky.
What am I really doing here?
I think that I’m here because Ilikeher. How else can I explain driving two hours to return something that I could have easily left with the hotel front desk? She’s got me doing things that make no sense, seeking her face in crowds, wanting to run into her. And at the same time, they’re the only things that do make sense these days.
Is this how it feels to have a crush?
Fuck, I hope she doesn’t slam the door in my face. Too late to back out now.
I open my door cautiously, smelling the fresh air that’s nothing like NYC with the slightest bite of autumn in it. There’s a motorcycle parked in the driveway that I didn’t notice before and that has me pausing because there’s no way in hell that’s Rhiannon’s.
I knock on the front door instead of using the doorbell, figuring it’s a little less imposing for what I’m here to do. I’m not sure how I arrived at that logic, but everything with Rhiannon has me questioning my every move. And when the front door swings home, I’m once again caught off guard and woefully unprepared for who answers it.
It’s a guy who looks to be around my age. Early 30s I’d guess, dark black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and scorching, hazel eyes like Rhiannon’s but a touch darker. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, his chest completely bare, revealing a thin scar on his left pec and a faded tattoo on his right.
And did I mention this guy isjacked?
I wish I’d done a few push-ups before showing up, because standing here in my navy-blue Armani suit next to this lumberjack of a man, I feel like a completely incompetent, tool.
“Can I help you?” he demands, his eyes narrowing as he looks me up and down, full disdain. He shifts his weight, peeking over my shoulder to see my car in his driveway then looks back at me, judgement written across his facial expression like an open book.
I consider telling him‘Sorry, wrong address,’turning around and making the two-hour drive back to the city with Rhiannon’s wallet. She’ll probably be back at work on Wednesday, I canleave it with the hotel security and get her number from her lawyer, but I’m too far in at this point.
I just hope this isn’t her secret husband.
Rolling my shoulders back, I stand taller, meeting his eye. “Yes. Does Rhiannon Carpenter live here?”
“Who’s asking?” he demands as he folds his arms over his chest and gives me a menacing glare. I’ve seen meaner, but I can’t get a read on who exactly this guy is to Rhiannon. “You know, it’s dinner time, and people who are from Brookhaven know you don’t knock on a stranger’s door during dinner.”
Well clearly, I’m not from Brookhaven because I’ve never heard of that rule.
“I live in-,” I stop myself before saying I live at the hotel she cleans, realizing how snobby that’s going to sound to a guy who’s clearly already made his mind up about me.
He looks like he’d start laughing if I said I live in the penthouse. And it’s not that I’m ashamed of where I live, it’s about convenience, but if this guy is important to Rhiannon, I’d rather not have him hating me out the gate.
“Um, I’m staying at the hotel where she works, and she left her wallet behind.”
His eyes narrow as he holds out his hand. “Let me see it.”
I place the wallet in his palm. He unzips it and checks her driver’s license before zipping it shut and tucking it in his back pocket.
“Yeah, this is Rhiannon’s.” He sighs, shaking his head. “She’s always losing this damn thing. I swear, I need to glue it to her. Thanks for bringing it here.”
I nod as he steps inside like he’s going to shut the door but then pauses and glances at the car behind me. I know it’s out of place here, a foreign that I splurged on when I made partner at my dad’s law firm at thirty-three-years-old, but I rarely get to drive while living in the city so when I do, I like to go fast and in something comfortable.
My gaze travels where he’s staring and the way our methods of transportation couldn’t be any more opposite.
